CHAPTER IX. Nor had Jack been idle all this time. “My sister,” she murmured, “is so independent. No surprise, for Melusine was aware no Frenchman in his situation would dream of walking abroad unarmed. She washed her face with unwonted elaboration before she went to bed. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself.
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